


The Joining

by Onomatopoetikon



Series: From Warriors to Wardens [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Book: Dragon Age - The Calling, Darkspawn, Developing Relationship, Grey Warden Joining, Love Confessions, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Origin Story, Orlais (Dragon Age), Pre-Canon, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25628218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onomatopoetikon/pseuds/Onomatopoetikon
Summary: Based on the novel "Dragon Age: The Calling" by David Gaider, this story is the third and last part of a trilogy that focuses on the relationship between Nicolas and Julien.
Relationships: Julien/Nicolas (Dragon Age)
Series: From Warriors to Wardens [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857682
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for this fic: blood, the gore of battle, pshyical wounds, near death experiences.

Nicolas had never fought like he did now.

Every fiber of his being was strung to its limit, threatening to give in at any given moment, at any careless movement, but he could not pay any attention to that. He had his hands full trying just to survive another move at all.

The darkspawn were horrors.

Some tall and broad, others short and stocky, all perfectly disgusting with their putrid, discolored skin and the stench of death and disease they carried with them, their limbs seemingly impossibly connected to another and wielding with brute force and even some skill their crude but menacing weapons, all the while shrieking, growling or snarling at the men fighting them. Their numbers were infinite, or seemed so to Nicolas who barely had the time to see one before a second, third and fourth were also upon him, beating at him with their spiked clubs or rusty swords. He could not keep count of how many he had felled with his mace, but knew only that his muscles ached from lifting and swinging the weapon countless times, again and again and again, battering it against a mass of bodies and haphazard armor alike, sometimes feeling the reverberations of a broken bone or a crushed skull before withdrawing for the next swing.

At one point, the short Genlock in front of him fell down suddenly, the point of an arrow piercing through its throat for a moment before a gush of dark blood oozed out to cover the wound. Another time, one of the Wardens cut down a Hurlock coming towards him with its sword raised high. It was the woman, Genevieve, and she did not even spare Nicolas a glance before blocking another enemy attack with her sword, her white hair spattered with blood and dirt.

Nicolas did not know how long the fight had lasted when he felt a shift in the flow around him. It was a subtle change, like a soft summer breeze carrying first the sweet warmth of a field and then the fresh coolness of a lake, but it was as if the world had turned. Somehow, the onslaught abated, slowly at first but then increasingly noticeable, as Nicolas found he suddenly had the time to actually beat down each enemy and seeing them die at his feet before having to turn to the next one.

It was then that he realized that the battle was over. Sure, as he looked around the field where the two armies had met, he could still see plenty of darkspawn assaulting the remaining soldiers, but they were not the seething mass of rotting grey and black bodies that had first charged them. They were distinguishable.

As, unfortunately, were the soldiers.

On the ground lay the remnants of the small human army, broken armor and broken limbs sprawled over each other and the fallen enemies, the small patches of visible dirt flecked with gore. Not far away from him lay a soldier, his skull crushed by something heavy and blunt – a club possibly. Beneath the blood-crusted, tangled brown hair Nicolas could see the white bone and the grey mass that had been covered by it. One eye hang loosely from its socket, staring blindly on the darkspawn under him. It was Alec.

Nicolas felt his stomach churn and empty, sour bile burning his throat as he spewed what little food he had had there, and as he kneeled on the ground, spitting and cursing, he felt the weight of the day on his back. He felt tremors. His limbs, his muscles, everything was heavy and shivering with fatigue and the many hours of slaughter and struggle to survive. Even breathing felt like an effort. His hand, fingers still tightly gripping the handle of the mace, was fixed in its tight grasp and he wondered briefly if it could ever be straightened out again. And still, he was alive.

Then he heard the faint, impossible sound of a blade slicing through air and lifted his weapon hastily, half-turning where he was squatted.

The Hurlock loomed over him, growling fiercely as it raised its bloodied blade for a second assault, bringing it down with a speed and force that Nicolas knew he could not block, not from such a vulnerable position. All he could hope for was a swift death.

But death did not come to him. It came to the Hurlock, delivered by a broad, big sword straight through its torso, handled by an all too familiar soldier whose weariness faded for a moment as his gaze met Nicolas'.

"Alive" he said, the words merely whispers, like the rustles of willows caught in a summer breeze. "You are alive."

"Thanks to you" Nicolas managed, struggling to get back on his feet but needing to reach out for Julien's supporting hand to do so, only then noticing the red stains on the armor and the clothing underneath it. "You're hurt."

"So are you."

Indeed he was. Not only were there numerous small cuts, but he could also feel the throbbing pain of bruised muscles on arms and shins. But more distressingly, there was an injury he had not noticed earlier. It was a cut, just above his hipbone. Shallow, but long and not very clean. The edges were rough and whether the dirt in the wound was because of the weapon or because of the fighting, it was not good that it was there.

Nicolas touched the sore area hesitantly, winced at the pain it caused and cursed. No, it was certainly not good.

"Do you think we should… regroup?" he asked Julien, looking again across the battlefield. Not very many men remained, and even fewer soldiers, but there was only a handful of darkspawn still standing and even as Nicolas watched they fell, one after another.

"Probably" Julien agreed, and so they began making their way across the field, across muddied ground and the bodies of the fallen. Some darkspawn were not entirely dead, forcing them to stop and remedy the situation, but every human they saw was long since dead, long since gone to the Maker and beyond any helping hand, either to heal or speed up an unavoidable death.

After what seemed like a small eternity they reached others. Some five hundred men had marched from their camps that morning. Now, mere hours later, no more than fifty remained. All wounded. Aside from himself and Julien, Nicolas saw only four other survivors from their garrison, none of which he knew very well.

"I should probably take a look at that."

Seemingly out of nowhere, the lean mage who had been one of the Warden instructors of the Fortalan garrison, appeared by Julien's elbow. He was tired to the point of exhaustion, that much was clear from his pallid face and the lack of any emotion in his voice. But as he raised his hands to Julien's arm, Julien shook his head.

"It is not a bad cut, cleaning it will suffice. Please help Nicolas instead, if you can."

The mage muttered at this, clearly having enough energy to feel insulted, but his mutterings came to an end as he turned his attention as requested.

"Remove the armor" he said, "and try to sit down somewhere. Now."

Nicolas, having wanted to protest, bit down on his words and did as asked. Now that he was aware of it, the wound seemed to burn its way through his body, hot and foul, and he gritted his teeth as he unfastened the straps that held the armor together, glad at the unexpected help from Julien who looked unusually concerned.

He sat down on the ground, a small patch of grass not stained by the carnage around them and tried to focus on breathing. The mage returned, fatigue replaced by intensive concentration. He had brought water – from where? Surely there was no stream here? – for Julien, and used a wet cloth of his own to dab softly at Nicolas side. Distractedly, Nicolas thought it was strange for a mage not to use a spell or some sort of concoction. Surely there must be something useful, for the pain if nothing else. Alcohol would do the trick, and it would clean the wound effectively, though of course it would hurt unimaginably.

"What would cause that?" he heard Julien ask, but it sounded strange, as if the man was somewhere far away and not right in front of him. Or was he? Somehow, Nicolas could not focus his gaze at where he thought Julien had been. It was as if thick mist was seeping in all around them, obscuring his vision.

The mage said something in reply, but Nicolas could not make out the words. He swayed, tried to get hold of something in order not to fall down, but his fingers found nothing but air. For the fraction of a moment he thought he saw Julien's face, eyes wide open with worry and surprise, and then he was lost.

It was as if he floated on a bed of feather dust grass. Soft, rolling slowly almost like waves but much more gently, caressing him. He heard whispers, carried to him as if on breezes, bits of conversation in which he had no part and little interest. Sometimes, he felt the shadows of touch on his skin, but it was as if the connection between that body and his mind was severed, as if he could not really be touched. And then he was yanked down.

Instead of floating, he was drowning. Arms flailing, legs kicking, he fought for air, for life, but he was held down until his lungs exploded and his mouth was filled with dirt, as if he was suddenly under the earth, buried alive, surrounded by moist dirt and a rhythmic, humming noise like insects, only bigger, nastier – and excited. The stench of death, of foul, rancid flesh, filled his mind, made his skin crawl, made him want to retch, but there was nothing he could do to avoid the inescapable fact that he would die.

Only… he did not die.

Slowly, timelessly later, he felt as if he could breathe again. It hurt, but there was air in his lungs, not water or dirt, and that, he decided, was a good thing. He no longer felt the grips of invisible hands either, and he was pleased to gather that whatever he lay on it was most probably a straw mattress, judging by the feel of it and the faint smell of warm, dry grass. When at long last he willed himself to open his eyes, he was in a room.

Room was perhaps too generous a description, it was more like the cell of a Chantry Sister – which, he thought, was probably the original purpose. There was nothing more in the room other than the bed in which he lay, a simple nightstand and a small chest for personal effects. A holy symbol hung one of the walls, but that was the only decoration. There were no ornaments, no carpet on the stone floor, nothing to suggest that someone actually lived there.

He felt slightly disoriented but sat up anyway, albeit slowly. His limbs were all fully functional, and he was pleased to notice that he was dressed, if somewhat scantily, as there was no shirt.

There was, however, a large pad of cloth covering his side, secured with bandage that wound its way around his midsection, and as it looked clean enough he decided not to study it further but instead try to find someone to talk to.

Walking proved to be something of a challenge. Every step caused pain to jolt through his body and the sense of disconnection seemed to remain, because now and then he would miscalculate his step and set his foot down too hard, or not at all, resulting in him stumbling pathetically through an empty corridor, grasping at the bare walls for support. If he fell, he was not entirely sure he could get up again on his own.

The corridor ended with a small, simple door which opened silently into a large hall. No, he realized after a few steps, not a hall: it was a Chantry.

He had entered one of the side chambers, where bookshelves lined one of the walls, filled with holy scriptures. The other wall was missing, opening the hall to the main chamber of the Chantry, where candelabras shone a soft, golden light over the dark, grey stones and the tapestries. There was the statue of Andraste at the altar, bathed in the light from the burning candles and the Eternal Flame and the bluish darkness from outside the high windows, incense and flowers at her feet. And in front of her, kneeling, was Julien.

He was dressed in simple clothes, no armor, and there were no weapons at his side. Perhaps he did not fear an attack in the sanctuary of the Bride of the Maker. Indeed, it did not appear very dangerous, empty and silent and peaceful as it was. Not entirely silent though. There was the steady flow of murmur from where Julien was, soft-spoken words, a prayer.

"Take from me a life of sorrow, lift me from a world of pain…"

Nicolas was not very familiar with the Chant of Light, having never been properly educated in its verses, but even he recognized the words. It was the Canticle of Transfigurations, the chapter normally thought of as Andraste's prayer. It was a prayer of devotion, of surrendering oneself to the Maker, body, mind and soul.

"Touch me with fire that I be cleansed, tell me I have sung to Your approval…"

Nicolas did not like the prayer, particularly. He did not appreciate the idea of the Maker demanding his followers to give up everything they were and hand it over to someone who had long since abandoned them. In all right, any prayer should be directed to Andraste. She would at least consider the request before deciding not to grant it.

Still, there was something heart-warming about the scene in front of him. Julien was a large man, strong and able, yet here he was, crouching down on a cold stone floor in the middle of the night, illuminated only by candlelight, putting his life and destiny in the hands of the Maker. It was humbling.

"For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give."

Nicolas stepped forward then, in slightly better command of himself than earlier, but he did not manage many steps before Julien heard the noise, opened his eyes and turned around.

"I did not realize you were a religious man" Nicolas said, having stopped in his steps and unsure of what else to say. In the shimmering light and with the distance between them, he could hardly make out Julien's expression, much less discern what the little he saw really meant.

"Nicolas?"

Surprise. Incredulity. Exaltation? Longing?

"In the flesh" Nicolas said, attempting to sound casual but failing, as he still needed to support himself with one hand on the wall and felt the exertion of walking and standing pulling him down. He did not fall though, because within moments Julien was on his feet and right in front of him, hands on Nicolas' arms, holding him upright.

"How long have I been gone?" he asked as they made their way to one of the benches.

"Almost four days" replied Julien, his voice trembling slightly. "I thought…"

He trailed off, unable to form the words, but Nicolas could well imagine what those words would be. With a smile he took Julien's hand and gave it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

"I didn't die" he said. "And neither did you. How's your arm?"

He remembered exactly where the wound had been but could not see any bandaging. Perhaps underneath the sleeve of the shirt?

"It was merely a scratch" Julien said, shrugging. "A lot of blood but not much else. How are you feeling?"

"Rather pathetic" Nicolas admitted. "Weak, sick, feverish. Do you know if it's bad?"

He guessed it was. It must be, if it had kept him unconscious for four days and still made him hurt all over with every movement. But it had not been that bad, surely? A shallow cut, however long, once cleaned would heal. Right? He made a motion to disengage the bandage patching him up, but Julien stopped him.

"What?" he asked, but the dark-haired man only shook his head.

"Let us go back to the room first" he said, then, more imploringly as Nicolas did not immediately accept the suggestion: "Please, Nicolas."

Nicolas would have liked to stay in the Chantry. Its dim lightning and the silence was welcome to him after the disturbing dreams that had haunted him. Still, he gave in to Julien's request and that proved to be a good thing. When they got back to the barren room Nicolas felt hot and cold, shivering violently with fever and exhaustion. He had no more than lain his head down on the pillow when he was caught again in dreams, nightmarish visions of blood and rotting flesh and the incessant humming noise, and he was lost to the world again.


	2. Chapter 2

Slowly he became aware of himself again, faster, perhaps, than when last he had awakened. He did not feel as feverish now, but still warm, and it was as if a blanket covered his thoughts.

"Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be Forgiven."

He knew that voice, knew it well enough to feel the weight of the words settling on him and groaned uncomfortably.

"Julien" he whispered, struggling to open his eyes and articulate the words. A hand caught his, or had it been there all the time? Holding him, anchoring him while he fought against the ghoulish visions?

"Julien, I'm not… I'm _not_ going to the Fade." However much he felt like it at the moment. "Don't send me off."

"Oh, he's awake" an unfamiliar voice said, somewhere farther away. "Goodie."

Steps against the floor, approaching the bed, and then a cool hand on his forehead, removing a linen cloth from his eyes. Nicolas blinked at the light in the room and the faces that surrounded him. Julien was the only one he recognized instantly and he looked downright awful, as if he had spent a week without food or sleep on the rank stool on which he was now sitting. As for the other two, he realized he did know them. The man who had removed the cloth from his eyes and had now stepped back was the mage, and in the doorway was the female Warden, the one with the white hair and fierce demeanor.

"What's the occasion?" Nicolas asked, looking at the assembled party. The room was cramped enough with only two people in it, four was almost impossible.

"Thank the Maker you are awake" Julien said, still holding Nicolas' hand with both his own. "I was afraid that-"

"Save your gratitude" the woman snapped. "Tell him the situation, Yvain."

The mage looked at Nicolas with an almost apologetic expression on his face, but it faded as soon as it had appeared and was replaced by grave concentration.

"As a matter of fact, Nicolas, you are dying" he said. "Your wound was infected by the darkspawn taint. If it doesn't kill you, it will turn you into a ghoul."

"And then you'll have to kill me" Nicolas filled in. He felt oddly detached from the room and the conversation. Julien's prayer for safe passage into the Maker's arms felt horrible and calming all at once.

"It doesn't necessarily have to go that far" Yvain said, a bit uncomfortably. "We thought you would be dead already. That you're not… gives us reason to believe that perhaps there is another way."

"You could join the Grey Wardens" Julien said. There was an odd tone to his usual low voice, not only excitement which was certainly there, but something else as well. Like saying good bye. Considering that the most anyone knew about the ancient order was that most people died joining it, he might as well be.

"What are you talking about?" Nicolas asked and tried to sit up, but was stopped by both Julien and the mage.

"You're not dead" the woman by the door said. "This means that you might be able to pass the Joining of the Grey Wardens, and then the taint won't kill you. Not for many years, at least."

"We don't know for sure" continued the mage. "But there is a possibility."

Nicolas looked at them again, not sure _what_ they expected from him but quite certain they were expecting _something_. He did not know what to do, or say. After several moments of pressing silence, he asked to speak with Julien.

"In private."

The Wardens exchanged glances, then left. The room seemed suddenly very empty, though it still felt cramped with Julien so close to the bed. He looked… forlorn, somehow.

"Join the Wardens?" Nicolas asked at last, to which Julien nodded slowly. "I'm not even sure I like them."

"And you would let that stop you?" Julien opposed him. He did not speak passionately, as Nicolas would have perhaps assumed someone speaking those kinds of words would do. He spoke as if he had been defeated. By what? And with what loss?

"From joining them? Yes, I would. No, Julien, I really want to sit up."

He did, and Julien let him, even though he seemed to think it was against better judgment. Nicolas was almost prone to agree with him when he felt the weakness in his own body. The taint spreading its corruption.

"I want to see it" he said, though saying the words made his stomach turn. He had never seen the corruption in a human, but he had seen the darkspawn, as well as his dream visions, and even then, not knowing seemed worse. "Will you help me?"

Julien did not exactly look thrilled at the prospect, but he nodded and carefully unwound the binding that covered Nicolas' waist. He paused before removing the actual bandage, but did not attempt to dissuade Nicolas from looking at it, only collected himself before removing the cloth.

Nicolas remembered a thin, shallow line. Long and curved, sure, but shallow, and its edges crusted with dirt. What he saw now was a rancid wound, the skin surrounding it an unhealthy grey. Blue veins streaked through the corrupted area, like poisonous snakes spreading their venom further and further into his body.

He felt like throwing up, and Julien covered the injury again, looking rather pale himself. No wonder.

"Please, Julien, tell me what you're thinking" he asked, trying hard to press down the sickness that was welling up in him. He pressed the other man's hand slightly, tried to give some support that he was not sure he was in a position to give. "You look as if… I can't even describe it."

"I should think" Julien said slowly, his gaze steadily interlocked with Nicolas', despair in his eyes, "that I look like a man who is slowly losing the most important person in his life, unable to do anything to stop it but forced to watch it happen."

Nicolas swallowed, hard.

"You do" he said softly, refraining from the comment on his own state of well-being, because it was an accurate description. "I'm sorry."

"Why? It is not as if you had much of a choice in the matter."

"No, but it breaks my heart to see you hurt like this."

He raised his free hand to Julien's face and cupped his cheek, stroking his thumb over the skin. How tired he looked. How utterly drained.

"Please tell me" Nicolas said. "Tell me everything, Julien."

But the man shook his head.

"I do not know what to say. I have not the words."

"So you borrowed the words from the Trials to send me off?"

"If I am to lose you, I would rather it be to the Maker than the Darkspawn. But I do not want to lose you at all, Nicolas."

It was only then that Nicolas remembered that Julien had already lost someone. The man that he loved, whom he could never see again. And that he did not want to lose Nicolas, did that not mean that he loved Nicolas as he had once loved the other man?

But would they not lose each other anyway, if Nicolas became a Grey Warden?

"You heard what they said. The only option is to join the Wardens and there's no guarantee I'll survive that, either."

"At least there is a chance" Julien said.

"So you'd rather lose me to the Wardens than the Maker."

"I would not lose you. I would follow."

Nicolas stared at the man, dumbstruck. The conversation had been strange enough, filled to the brim with emotions that none of them had even breathed before, but this declaration was stranger still.

"No" Nicolas heard himself saying. "Absolutely not. That is out of the question."

"It is not for you-"

"Oh but it damned well is!" Nicolas said, surprising both Julien and himself with the explosive energy in his voice. "Isn't it bad enough that I have to decide how _I_ will die? Do I have to take your death, no, _suicide_ , on my conscience as well? I won't have it."

He had let go of Julien's hand and crossed his arms on his chest, looking away from the man who had more or less stated that he would gamble his life for Nicolas' sake. It was perhaps the closest Nicolas had ever come to a declaration of love and yet, it was so much more than that.

"I did not think you would wake up again."

Julien's voice was as low as ever, filled with barely contained emotion and a sorrow so deep it seemed almost palpable. But Nicolas did not turn to look at him, did not dare to, afraid of what he would find in Julien's face and in his own heart.

"I thought I had already lost you when you spoke my name. I prayed… I have been praying since you collapsed in my arms in the battlefield. I have seen you fight against the taint, and I have seen you almost lose, and I did not think I could bear not to hear you take another breath."

If seeing Julien hurt had caused Nicolas' heart to break, these words made it contract instead. There was a tightness in his chest that he had never felt before and he was sure it had nothing to do with his wound or pending death.

"It is my risk to take" Julien concluded. "And if that risk means that I have a chance of not losing you, then I am willing to take it. Provided that… that you do not wish for me to leave."

The effort with which he spoke the words, and the pained silence as he paused for strength to continue, was impossible to endure turned away. So Nicolas looked at Julien again, gathered the other man's hands in his own and searched his gaze for some sort of shared support.

"I would never ask for this" Nicolas said. "I couldn't. It is… too much."

"I never needed asking" Julien replied. "But I need you."

A sweet kiss and a long, hard embrace later, Nicolas reluctantly agreed to Julien's idea.

"On one condition" he said as the other man rose to go and collect the Wardens. "You will not attempt whatever this is until after I'm finished."

Julien gave an almost apologetic shrug at this, but no answer as he disappeared through the door. A minute later he returned, with Yvain and Genevieve in tow. The mage appeared pleased, the woman indifferent.

"So you have decided to try it? Excellent" the mage said as he approached the bed. "We can't perform the Joining ritual until sunset though, so try and stay alive a few more hours."

"Wait a moment" Nicolas said, "what ritual?"

"The Joining" the woman said, who was again positioned more in the doorway rather than actually in the room. "Look here, to join the Wardens the recruit must survive a ritual. Thing is, the magic involved is not one we can just unleash anywhere, anyhow. We're not offering you this chance out of kindness, but because we think you've a decent chance of surviving and be of use to us. The ritual takes place tonight, or not at all."

There was a finality in her voice which Nicolas knew better than to argue against, even though he wanted to. His own life was forfeit – he would kill himself rather than have the taint corrupt his body further – so risking it was not much of a gamble. But he did not want Julien to be stuck with this strange cult in case he did not make it through. And he did not want Julien to die because of it either.

"I will come to get you before the ritual" the mage said. He had readjusted the bandage but did not seem very aghast by the wound – Nicolas imagined he had seen worse and hoped never to do so himself, ever again. As he rose though, Yvain seemed to remember something.

"Do you have any family?" he asked. "You couldn't stay with them of course, or bring them to the Wardens, but we could send a message for you."

"No" Nicolas replied and shook his head a little. "There is no one to inform."

 _No one who doesn't already know_ , he thought, looking at Julien. Everyone else who might have had an interest in his welfare had been slain by the darkspawn.

"Oh, I see" the mage said. "I'll see you later."

The Wardens left the room again. Julien remained standing, as he had during their visit, by one of the walls. He did not seem to know quite what to do with himself, stay or leave, which was unusual. In all their brief time of knowing each other, Julien had never been indecisive. Well, maybe a little, in the brothel, but that had been nerves rather than inability to decide what to do. Was it really no more than a week ago? It felt like months.

"Close the door please, Julien. And come here."

The man did as requested, though it was hard to discern whether he was pleased at staying in the room or would rather have left it. When at last he was sitting down by the bed again, Nicolas fixed him with his gaze.

"You knew" he stated. "About the ritual."

"Yes" Julien confirmed.

"And you didn't tell me."

"No."

Nicolas wanted to argue, but Julien's calm, monosyllabic responses seemed to chase all arguments away. They could not be sure about anything beyond the sunset, but that was still a few hours away. He would rather not spend that time arguing, though he did not particularly feel up for anything else, either – he was perfectly drained. As was Julien, by the looks of it.

"Have you slept at all?" Nicolas asked, and the question appeared to take Julien by surprise, because he did not answer for several moments.

"Only a little" he admitted at last and shook his head as he said the words.

"You should. Come here, I'll scoot over."

"I…"

"You're a soldier. You sleep when you're told to sleep." Nicolas voice softened as he saw hesitation and something like fear in Julien's face, and he smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "I won't die, I promise. I just want to…"

Exist? Was that the word he was looking for? A last, brief repose before he might possibly, probably die? He was not entirely certain, but Julien complied and saved Nicolas the trouble of explaining himself further. The bed was narrow, clearly not built for two broad and bulky warriors, but after some adjustments they managed an arrangement that was not completely unbearable. It was only a minute until Julien was fast asleep, as days and nights of keeping wake took out their toll.

Nicolas closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Julien breathing, thinking that it might be the last thing he ever heard.

They were roused some time later, when Yvain entered the room. He did not seem particularly fazed by their physical intimacy, but Julien blushed a great deal as they struggled to get out of the bed and then, subsequently, out of the room. For what felt like an eternity they walked through the hallways, Julien supporting Nicolas to keep him from falling as his feet did not obey his mind any better than last time. They did not go to the Chantry but inwards and upwards until at last they were standing on a roof, which had been decorated almost like a garden, with pillars and fountains and benches – but without any kind of flowers or shrubbery. In an open spot, Genevieve and her brother, as well as a few other Wardens who Nicolas did not recognize, were waiting. Their gazes were not unfriendly, precisely, and some appeared curious rather than anything else, but Nicolas felt annoyed and exposed – a feeling which was not at all improved by the fact that he was still not fully dressed. Thankfully enough, the attention of the small crowd lay elsewhere entirely.

"Are you ready?" a female elf asked. By her commanding voice and how she was situated in a sort of middle, Nicolas concluded that she was probably some sort of senior officer, or at least the person conducting the ritual.

"Yes" Nicolas said, echoed at once by Julien.

"Well then, let us not waste any more time."

The woman straightened her back and drew a deep breath, and she was instantly mimicked by the other Wardens who had now formed a circle around them. As she began to intone a verse, Nicolas could see the intent with which the others listened to the words.

"Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

Shivers traveled down Nicolas' spine and he cast a sidelong glance at Julien, who looked unperturbed by the spectacle. They could still back out, he guessed, technically at least, but whatever the ritual contained it had officially begun, that much was clear. Seeing as he had absolutely nothing to gain from not trying, backing out was not an option.

Someone produced a goblet and offered it for Nicolas to drink. The fluid inside was dark and smelled profusely of something sweet and rancid, but the thought of the festering wound in his stomach made Nicolas lift it and swallow the drink anyway, then fight to keep it down. He was distantly aware of someone taking the goblet away from him, but he did not see Julien accept it. It was as if his nightmares had come to life and once again he found himself pulled down beneath the earth, imprisoned within the sound of humming and the crazed beating of his own dying heart.

It was not long before he regained consciousness though. When he opened his eyes, he was still on the Chantry roof and the top of the sun was still visible above the far horizon. He could not have been unconscious for more than a few minutes at the most, but during that brief time he knew that something had changed, permanently.

Then he saw Julien.

The tall, broad warrior was lying on the stone floor, muscles tight and rigid and the eyes staring blindly upwards, and kneeling next to him was the mage, Yvain, his brow furrowed.

Nicolas broke free of the person holding him and scrambled to his feet. Again he felt that surreal disconnection, as if he watched his body make its way to Julien's side from somewhere outside it. In the next instant he was back in his body and sank down next to the man clearly struggling for his life.

"Oh no you don't" he said between gritted teeth and reached for Julien's hand. "Don't you dare to not make it through."

"It's not uncommon" the mage said, almost under his breath. "Very few survive the Joining."

"He's not dead yet" Nicolas growled. Julien's hand was as cold as the stone beneath them.

"No" Yvain admitted. "And if he does survive, it will be the only Joining I've ever heard of where no one died."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

The mage did not answer but rose and left to stand a few paces away. Nicolas was only vaguely aware of the other Wardens, who kept their distance as well but remained on the roof all the same. In some part of his mind, Nicolas appreciated it, though earlier he had been frustrated by their presence and attention.

_Know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you._

The words came to mind as clearly as if someone had spoken them out loud again, and he shuddered as he realized the gravity in them. This was not simply signing up for some adventure, exchanging one guard garrison for another. These people, humans, dwarves and elves, had devoted their lives to the Grey Wardens and its mission, and they knew that they would die in doing so. Even though he was not yet a member of their order, they were honoring Julien's sacrifice.

Nicolas forced down the tears that were threatening to flood his eyes, and it dawned on him that he was one of the Wardens now. Whether he lost Julien to their ritual or not, he owed them his life.

 _Andraste_ , he thought, not trusting his mouth and lips to form the prayer into actual words. _Don't… Andraste, please don't…_

He could not continue. He had not attempted a real prayer, but the words failed him all the same, as if all he was had been wrapped in shadow and consumed by it. He had never been a man of much faith and now, when faith might have comforted him, the seeming futility of it all sealed his thoughts, as if his mind was as filled with cotton as his mouth felt.

Then there was a cough and then, half a moment later, an intake of air so sudden and so violent, like one might imagine a drowning man to gasp for air. A rush of activity started around them, the Wardens awakened again from their wait-induced stillness, but Nicolas hardly noticed them.

"Julien" he said simply, and wanted nothing more than to see the other man's eyes open again. They did not, however, but Julien's body seemed more relaxed now, almost like sleeping, and Nicolas could see him breathing, felt the pulse under the skin.

"He'll be alright" one of the Wardens said. "The worst has passed."


	3. Chapter 3

It was a long wait that followed. The other Wardens had brought Julien downstairs again, and carefully placed him on the bed in the same small room that Nicolas had been lodged in during the past week. Now their roles were reversed, and Nicolas found himself wondering how Julien had managed just sitting there, waiting, when it had been almost certain that Nicolas would not survive. Nicolas himself had not been waiting for more than two hours yet and the Wardens had all but promised that Julien would surely wake up soon enough – but for all their reassurances, it was still awful and almost impossible to endure.

There was not much to do, other than watch Julien's chest rise and fall, and to be honest, he could not have spent his time in any other way. While he was still on edge and occasionally thought that Julien had stopped breathing altogether, it was a strangely comforting view. As if it gave some stability to the thoughts whirling through his mind.

Not to mention his feelings.

Now that the worst fear had subsided, he had time to actually reflect upon it and the state of the rest of his emotions.

He had lost friends before – even now he could recall Alec's bashed in head vividly – and to realize that they were irretrievably gone had always been difficult, and sad. But in the two short months that he had known Julien, and in the even shorter time that they had been intimate with each other, not only physically but also in a deeper way, Julien had become something much more than a friend. Nicolas was hesitant to think the world _lover_. It was technically a correct term, but the _love_ in it… Their companionship _was_ about more than solely enjoying each other's bodies and yet… yet he felt as if saying it was somehow bigger than anything else he had ever said. Perhaps because he had never been given it, perhaps because he had never before had the reason to say it himself. Even so, watching Julien in the bed Nicolas felt it like a warm, solid weight in his chest.

Infinitely later, Julien woke up. Slowly, sluggishly at first, as if resurfacing from deep within the Fade, but then his eyes cleared and he caught Nicolas' worried expression with a brief smile.

"You made it" he said, his voice merely a raspy whisper, and Nicolas felt relief wash over him.

"You too" he replied. "You certainly took your time."

"My apologies."

"Accepted."

Nicolas felt foolish, sitting there with a silly grin all over his face, but he could not help it. Had he not felt so tired, and had Julien not looked so worn out, he would probably have thrown himself at the other man to hug him tightly. Now, Julien _did_ look worn out and Nicolas was tired, and so all he could do was smile. And yawn, then laugh at the impropriety of doing so.

He felt exhausted in a way he could not recall he had ever been before in all his life, and even though Julien chuckled as well, Nicolas thought he must feel the same fatigue. The few hours of sleep they had shared earlier that same day – it felt like years ago – had hardly been enough for Julien after a week of barely sleeping at all.

"I should let you sleep" Nicolas said and stretched his legs in order to get back up on his feet. "And find a bed of my own."

"No, please stay."

Julien's hand caught Nicolas' and while the grip was hardly enough to force Nicolas to sit down again, the simple touch and the words were impossible to argue with. Thus, Nicolas sat down at the stool again, his hand still linked with Julien's. He expected Julien to say something, but not a word was said. Silence lingered in the room for a long while and the weight of unspoken thoughts made the air heavy.

Finally, Julien seemed to have gathered himself sufficiently.

"You never told me much about yourself."

Nicolas looked up – for some reason his eyes had been focused on their joined hands – and met Julien's eyes.

"I'm sorry?"

"I realized this when our roles were reversed, when you were in this bed and I was sitting where you are now. I realized that if you died I would not have known who you were – and you were so far away then. There were times when I was certain you had…" His voice trailed off, unwilling to speak the word, as if by saying it out loud it would become reality. "It was sudden and horrible, that thought. That was why I was in the chapel when you woke up. Not because the Maker could have answered the questions I had, but because I sought reassurance."

Nicolas did not reply at first. He was uncertain of what Julien wanted to say, or what he meant by what he was saying, but it was clear that he expected some kind of answer.

"What questions did you have?" he asked, at last.

"Silly things. Where you grew up. How you came to be at Fortalan."

"You don't need to know those things. You _do_ know me."

"I know. I realized that when I woke up, just now, and I saw you."

Embarrassingly enough, Nicolas felt a flush spread on his cheeks. He was not one to turn bright red, thankfully, but he did not think it went by unnoticed either.

"You'll see me every day from now on. We're property of the Grey Wardens now, darkspawn taint and all."

"Do you regret it? Joining them?"

The question demanded some consideration and Nicolas turned it over in his head a few times, even though he did not really need to. He knew the answer already.

"No" he said. "I've never wanted to fight for a greater cause or sacrifice my life for the good of others, but I've always been a soldier and I would rather be a soldier where I'm needed, than to stand guard by some dried up well for the rest of my life."

His life had lead him on strange paths before, and this was only yet another one. Even if his time in Fortalan had been pleasant and fun, it was over. Most of his friends were dead and even though he had slain many of the darkspawn, there would still be many others to fight. If nothing else, the Wardens promised plenty of opportunity to do just that, and that was as good a motivator as any other for Nicolas.

"I'm happy to be alive" he continued. "I much prefer it to the alternative. I owe them my life and if my fighting is how they want to be repaid, then that's what I'll do, for as long as I can. But more than that, I'm happy that you're alive. I'm happy that your life was not forfeit, and that I have not lost you."

"I could say the same" Julien replied, "and the words would be just as true."

Once again, Nicolas felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment and he turned down his gaze for a moment. Julien's words had been spoken with so much more serenity than his own, as well as with an honesty that Nicolas felt for a moment he could not compete with. But then, why would he? His feelings were serene enough, even if he could not express them as eloquently.

"I grew up in a small village" he said suddenly, "Rouxeille. My mother was a prostitute, and who my real father was, I don't know. Certainly not the man she lived with, he made that much pretty clear. But he did teach me how to use a mace, and when he threw me out of the house I went to Fortalan. I think I dreamed of honor and glory because I went to the Seneschal and managed to get an audience – don't ask me how. I stood there with my threadbare shoes and the rusty old mace I'd stolen from home and told some pretty lies about my skills and the battles I'd seen and he listened very politely and nodded once or twice. Then he said that while such a skilled warrior such as me would naturally be of an immense use to him, unfortunately, his household seldom encountered the sort of danger I was evidently accustomed to."

His torrent of words was broken suddenly as Julien laughed and Nicolas soon joined him in his mirth. At the time he had been very embarrassed at how easily his lie had been discovered, not realizing how transparent it had been, him being an ill-dressed, poor youngster with a weapon twice his age and useless beyond restoration due to years of neglect. No such shame now though.

"Then he asked me whether I would find it in me to accept a position within the city guard instead, and before I knew it I was being sent to the most remote of the guard posts, mace in hand and swelling with pride at my successful deception."

He paused briefly, momentarily lost in memories of a time long past, though the years separating the now and then were easily counted.

"He was very graceful about it, you know. And it was the best someone like me could hope for, a position in the city guard. Somewhere to sleep, somewhere to eat, a trade to learn. Companions."

"Friends?" Julien asked. "Lovers?"

"Friends" Nicolas acknowledged with a nod, "and as I've already told you, sometimes more than that. But I believe, after careful contemplation, that there has only been one lover."

"Is that so?"

Julien's tone of voice was impossible to discern – it could have been surprised or smug or flirtatious or something completely different, Nicolas could not tell. He could, however, elaborate his answer and find out.

"It is. And seeing as neither of us is dead yet, I think that perhaps there will only ever be one."

"Everyone thinks so."

Julien's voice still held something of the recent laugh, but there was another note to it as well, one that Nicolas chose to ignore.

"Do they? Well, for my part, I'm willing to try and turn that thought into reality. There is nothing else for me now but the Grey Wardens, and you."

"Coming from any other man, it would sound a poor prospect."

"Any other man would be a fool."

He leaned in over the bed and pressed his lips to Julien's, a gentle kiss but hopefully one full of promise as well. Then, as he retreated, he sat down on the side of the bed instead of on the stool.

"I have you to thank for my life, Julien" he said, and lifted his hand to stop the other man's attempt at a protest. "I do. And just like you, I realized some things while sitting here. Things far more important than my past."

He took a deep, slow breath, as if doing so would somehow ease the words he wanted to speak. Instead, the pause only increased their gravity.

"I love you, Julien. It is not a word I am familiar with, but I believe it is the one that describes what I'm feeling. And if the rest of my life, however long or short, is spent together with you, then I am content."

"As am I."

Nicolas exhaled, not knowing he had held his breath.

"Then", he said, "wherever the road may take us, I guess we're going there together."

They left the Chantry and the city of Val Mort early the next morning.

Neither Nicolas nor Julien felt particularly ready for a march, but the other Grey Wardens were eager to be on their way. They had lingered too long already, they said, and while the darkspawn invasion here might have been quelled, there were more of them roaming the countryside and other places that demanded the Wardens' presence.

"Also", the female elf who had performed their Joining ritual said, "we have lost brothers and sisters as well. We must bring word to our stronghold in Montsimmard, and to Weisshaupt."

Nicolas felt her words like a knife to the stomach. His wound was no longer rancid and the mage Yvain had declared that it would heal now without any further complications, but the elf's words seemed to rip it open again. They had exited the city and the road they walked was surrounded on both sides by grassy fields, here and there dotted by large and blackened funeral pyres – the only testament to the battle fought there only little more than a week earlier.

"Soldiers?" Nicolas asked one of the other Wardens, the white-haired Genevieve. "Or darkspawn?"

"Darkspawn" she said with a grimace, not looking at the pyres. "We told the survivors to burn their bodies until they were nothing but ashes, but there were so many and they burn slowly. The soldiers were cremated as well, separately, and their ashes were strewn to the wind by the Revered Mother."

"Oh."

There was nothing else he could say. There were other questions, surely, but none he wanted to ask now, as they walked through this landscape. For a brief moment he wondered if this was perhaps a curse of being a Grey Warden. To fight against overwhelming numbers of enemies and see friends and allies fall, only to rise up the next day to fight the same enemy again and watch it all repeat itself endlessly.

He looked at Julien who walked next to him. They had slept through the night, crammed tightly together in the narrow bed once again, and while Nicolas did not feel very refreshed, at least he felt better. Julien too looked comparatively well, although some paleness still lingered on his skin.

"What are you thinking?" Julien asked as he caught Nicolas's glance at him.

Nicolas shook his head.

"I don't know. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I'm even alive. So many are not."

He gestured at the fields around them and Julien followed the motion with his eyes, taking in the pyres. No doubt he too remembered the battle, the ceaseless wielding of his weapons as the enemies came crashing down on them and comrades fell at their crude swords and rusted blades.

"I hardly knew them" Julien said. "I don't know if I can mourn them, or even fully comprehend that they are dead."

"I don't think anyone can" Nicolas replied. "A soldier remembers his friends, a lieutenant his company, but more than that? I think it's beyond comprehension."

Even the memory of Alec's crushed body was beginning to fade. Strange, how vivid it had been and how soon it faded away. The loss though… that was real. That, he remembered.

"We can fight" Julien pointed out.

"Yes" Nicolas agreed. "But I won't fight because of the lives lost here. I don't feel the need to exact revenge."

He might have, he thought, if Julien had not been walking next to him now. Then it might have been personal. Now…

"Are you saying you will be fighting for a greater cause?" Julien asked, the hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. "Where have you hidden this champion for the greater good, and why has he emerged now?"

"Ha ha. I'm not a hero, and I don't think I'll ever be. I'm a warrior, yes, but a soldier first. I think… I think a war that never ends suits me."

"How lucky you are."

Nicolas caught the humor and thought for a moment to respond with another joke, but did not. Instead, he stopped and caught Julien's wrist, causing him too to stop.

"I am" he said, meeting the other man's surprised gaze. "I am very, very lucky."

Julien's expression softened and he nodded. Then, without another word, they both continued down the road, side by side among the other Grey Wardens, to whatever fate the Maker had in store for them, together.


End file.
